


Beyond the Clouds

by rostropovich



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Dogfight - Freeform, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Fortis leader shipped it first, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Unhappy Ending, i learned how to theoretically fly a spitfire for this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-06 02:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16379303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rostropovich/pseuds/rostropovich
Summary: Collins and Farrier were friends before they were lovers, and before that, they were adversaries.





	1. Primis

Neither of them smile as they shake hands tersely. Farrier doesn’t want this and, as far as he can tell, neither does Collins. They’ve not shared a word until this moment, but it’s a small, crowded base, and word travels fast and men are quick to choose a favourite and put a tenner behind them. 

Farrier has been at Cattewater for a few years now and, in doing such, has established himself nicely. There is little fanfare after his sorties, per his own dictation. Men have tried, but he won’t have it. He takes off, does his job, and comes back, safe and sound. Someone once congratulated him on his ace status, but Farrier doesn’t see any honour in reminiscing on the amount of men he has felled. He thinks that, because airplanes separate man from man, there is an air of impersonality, and therefore a general insouciance to such barbarism.

Nevertheless, he cannot help the vanity that comes with knowing that, even in killing other people, he is the best. 

He keeps to himself, with his pocket sized copies of  _ Paradise Lost _ and  _ Hornblower _ . It’s been him and the old eastender since they day he was stationed at Cattewater. Protocol insists they have a third, and so they are assigned freshly minted boys who write so many letters their hands cramp and hide their tears late in the night. Farrier and the eastender, Barber, do their best; Barber takes the lead while Farrier picks the unsuspecting Jerry off from the side, all the while looking out for the kid who is, no doubt, still flipping through his manual.

Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. 

It’s a morbid arrangement, but such byproducts come with the territory. It only causes Farrier to further retreat into his shell. Learning their names, learning their faces only makes it worse when their Spit goes down. Contrary to some of the rumours haunting the base like ghosts, he’s human too. The deaths that accumulate, whether because of his doing, his negligence, or simply under his watch, are cut into his heart like scars and, with every beat, he feels them. 

He surprises himself when he realises that the new addition to Fortis Squadron will not be snuffed out so easily, and finds that he dreads it. Even despite such brutality, Farrier can’t find too much fault in it, given his adversary. 

Collins is everything Farrier is not, and more, save for their twin ace statuses. He's older than the more boyish pilots that only last a few weeks, but, despite his challenging ranking on the unofficial leaderboard _(_ the leaderboard that Farrier had been heading until his arrival  _)_ , he's not yet earned his colours to be considered one of the old dogs, like Farrier and Barber. Farrier has never seen him fly in the few months that the Scot has been stationed, but Barber says he has an aptitude for it. He oozes a natural charisma that, somehow, manages to excuse any and every transgression he has made. He flirts with the women’s auxiliary pilots often. Farrier doesn’t mind the girls in the least, save their much needed work. The smiles Collins gives them are charming, if not overly so.  _What does he think he's here for?_ Farrier wondered as he hopped out of the cockpit and onto the soft tarmac. 

Collins is just as aimless and roguish on the ground as he is in the sky, and no amount of smiles and inveiglement will let Farrier forget that it has cost good men their lives.

He’ll be hell to fly with. 

“See you in the air,” Collins says in his thick Scottish drawl.

“Maybe,” says Farrier.


	2. Secundi

Farrier pulls his helmet off, teeth gritting dangerously. He shimmies out of the seat straps and lets the cockpit fly open. The cold evening breeze blowing across the hilly landscape of Mount Batten cools the sheen of sweat on his brow, darkening his hair and stinging his eyes. His fists clench and unclench around the thick wool lined fabric of his gloves. Farrier clambers out of the cockpit and his knees wobble and his feet sting as he hit the tarmac; it was a long, long flight. He’s still dizzy with a swirl of sickness still in his stomach after the dogfight, but he doesn’t allow himself a second to get his bearings.

Barber is already there waiting for him. “Farrier. Farrier!” he snaps, staying close on his subordinate’s heels. The pilot ignores him, storming to where the third Spitfire sighs to rest. He tugs his gloves off stiffly and stuffs them in his pocket, his fingers stretching and flexing into a fist. “ _Charles!_ ” Barber growls, grabbing the excess fabric of Farrier’s jacket and swinging him about face. Farrier swoons as he turns. “Is this really the best way of going about things?”

“You’re asking me to just let _that_ go?” He snarls.

“I’m _telling_ you to let me handle it. You forget yourself, Farrier.” The pilot glances back to Collins’ Spitfire and thinks better of it. He shoots Barber an icy look and starts the long walk back to base, his long shadow aflame as the sun sets behind him.

The commons are a respite from what happened in the air. The lights are warm and dim, buzzing lightly. The room is thick with cigarette smoke, people murmur quietly, and a radio plays big band. Farrier settles by a wall in nothing but his blue uniform pants, a white tee shirt, and a pair of purple house shoes over his wool socks that were sent long ago as a gift from his mother. He nurses an iced coffee with no cream, no sugar, and a worn copy of Connell’s _The Most Dangerous Game_ , the cover just about ready to fall off for the umpteenth time. It hangs on by fraying electrical tape, courtesy of a sympathetic groundcrew member.

The door opens to the outside and anything not tied down flutters with the welcoming of a cold gust of air. Farrier’s hair ruffles across his forehead and he’s reminded, once again, that he desperately needs a haircut. The room quiets all of a sudden, so suddenly that he’s roused from the yellowing pages of his book and glances around the room.

It’s Collins. He does not wear his charisma tonight. Barber must have spoken to him.

Farrier dog ears the page, even though he could recite the whole novella by memory, but he doesn’t put it down.

“Hey,” says Collins, and takes a drink of something from a bottle. Farrier glances at him, eyebrows raised. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck _me_? You should’ve stuck to the formation instead of trying to fuck all of us.”

“You were doing a fine job of that yourself, mate.” The tension is as thick as the cigarette smoke rising up to the ceiling.

“That’s why Fortis Leader had to give you a talking to, innit?”

“You’re full of shit, Farrier.”

Wordlessly, Farrier flies out of his seat and Collins braces to meet him. Farrier gets the first hit, right on Collins’ cheek. It stings his fist satisfyingly. The sound of metal chairs scraping on the floor resounds loudly through the common area as the other pilots, technicians, and ground crew members scramble to give them room. Already, bills are being passed from man to man; they’ve been waiting for the storm to break, ever since the clouds began to build on the summery horizon. It’s storming now.

As Farrier shakes out his throbbing fist, Collins managed to swipe his nose and he worries that something cracked. Collins has every disadvantage in the fight, save his youth, but that doesn’t make Farrier any less deadly. He’s stronger and heavier, with a surer, more mentored strike, and whispered rumours of a past spent as a prize fighter. Everyone knows, however, that in a rageful vendetta fight like this, anything can happen, and what it really comes down to is who is angrier. Farrier ducks beneath Collins’ fist and reaches up to grab the front of his shirt.

Gunshots ring out deafeningly loud in the commons all of a sudden and everyone freezes, except for Collins and Farrier, who see only each other, and red. Barber storms to his two subordinates and pushes them apart, trying to break their gaze. He fires his gun twice more and finally, they relent. Farrier gives him an incredulous look before realising that the shots were blanks.

“You two!” Barber barks, still with a hand on both of their chests even though the fight has de - escalated. Farrier sniffles and wipes the blood from his nose. The apple of Collins’ cheek is flaming red, and he’s sure it’ll bruise within the hour. He turns his head and spits viscous red blood and spit on the ground. “Are you happy with yourselves? Can we move on from this now?” There’s silence and, uncomfortable, the crowd begins to disperse.

He turns to Farrier, brown eyes glaring into his. “I thought you had more control.” Barber wheels around to Collins. “I thought _you_ had more respect. I don’t want to hear anymore about this; don’t test me, for you will fail, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” says Farrier.

“Yeah,” says Collins.

“ _Yeah_?”

“Yes sir.”

Barber takes a moment, still seething. He’s always prided himself on running a tight and orderly formation with little to report but good news. Farrier remembers why he had never crossed him before. “You’re so full of yourselves,” he reprimands, looking at each pilot in turn with a scathing scrutiny, “and of each other.” Barber steps away from both of them with disgust. “Clean this shit up, and be quick about it.”


	3. Tertium

 

The sun is a great egg yolk slowly cooking as it wavers down to the western horizon, bleeding gold onto the fiery, scarlet sky. There are streaks of purple upon the wisping clouds and the north star is beginning to wink down at the world from its perch far, far from the world. Far from everything. Farrier wonders what the stars must think, looking down at an already broken world ripping itself apart.  
  
His eyes are strained and tired, and if he weren’t wing to wing with a Flying Fortress, he might’ve been fighting harder against his exhaustion. The rumble of the Merlin engine is blissfully numbing in a strange, jostling sort of way, and his coats and gloves keep him properly warm. The air is thin and even, and the Spitfire glides through the oceanic wind currents easily and conducively, like a knife through silk.

The past week had been nightmarish, in a lucid, disorienting sort of way. The triumvirate were in the air every five hours or so, flying a multi - hour mission before touching down. Farrier was fairly well regimented at the beginning of the week. He took off, touched down, ate, showered, and slept, took off, touched down, ate, showered, and so forth. The fatigue hardly waned, however, and he found himself on the brink of exhaustion. _(_ “C’mon boys,” Barber had roused them. “We live like Mozart, we die like Mozart.” Collins had pointed out that Mozart was German, coaxing a _harumph_ from Barber, who was dismayed at his now retired adage, and a sort of laugh from Farrier. _)_ Showering went to hell in a bin first, and eating soon after it. By Friday, he took off, touched down, and collapsed on his thin cot, barely bothering to kick off his boots.

Fortis section dominated the underground leaderboard, pulling even farther away as the limits of Farrier and Collins’ adversity became limited, via the strong arm of their direct leader, to performance alone. They barely spoke, their communication simply limited to a word or two over the comms midflight. Their contact on the ground was even shorter, reserving themselves to fleeting glances when the other wasn’t looking, or a cold glance when the other was.

It is Sunday evening, soon to be night, now, and, with only half the day off, the more decorated officers granted the section a respite. It was a simple transport mission flying over British airspace, flanking a Flying Fortress. The heavy, four - engined bomber was carrying not a payload of explosives, but supplies for refitting at R.A.F Gormanston in Meath. Somehow, Barber managed to let the two have the rest of to themselves at Gormanston, despite it only being a two hour flight from Devon.

The layout of the airfield is simple enough, unlike some of the labyrinths in the larger bases at Dublin, Northumberland, and Kent. By the time his wheels kiss the tarmac, Farrier thinks he might collapse. His stomach acid has taken to eating itself and he feels ill, not to mention woozy from the altitude sickness that he’s never quite been able to acclimate to. He slows, rather jerkily, to a halt.

It’s a strange feeling to be a stranger somewhere after being so familiar with a place Farrier had disturbingly begun to consider home. Nevertheless, that’s what it seems to be. He knows where the plates are, how far to turn the shower knob to get the right amount of warm water, which doors squeak, and whether to push or pull. He doesn’t realise how Mount Batten has become second nature to him until he hops out of the cockpit and looks at the base.

It’s a bleary little nest perched upon the rocky Atlantic shores like an albatross’s nest. Massive Flying Fortresses and two seater fighters line the grass and fill the hangars. Gormanston is heavy with reconnaissance traffic, as well as boys from RAF Coastal. Barber once told him that the smaller, more remote bases focus on picking off U-boats from the skies, as well as resupplying, refueling, and refitting Americans on their way to France and Germany. Some even launch out of Meath to get to Kiev and Moscow.

Suddenly very warm, Farrier peels off his bomber jacket and drapes it over his arm. He needs a wash, and rather desperately at that, but this isn’t his base and all he’ll be doing is flying back home in a few hours, so he decides he’ll pass. He thinks over what all he’s had to eat, wondering if he can sack brushing his teeth, too, but a memory of his mother threatens to disown him.

“She’s good on fuel, thanks, mate,” he says to the groundcrew member.

“Aye,” he says with a nod and a friendly pat on Farrier’s shoulder. The crewman turns to his friend and says something in Irish. Farrier’s lips purse and he searches for his clique. Barber still lingers by the Fortress. It’s already being unloaded and reloaded with various supplies on big, wooden pallets. Barber gives a rare smile and a laugh to the group of old dogs, a mix of their own aircrew and a few men of Gormanston.

Wordlessly, Farrier decides to find some place warm to put his feet up and earn a few quid at the tables before he rests his eyes. The barracks and living spaces, even a few of the hangars, are built up on top of each other, as well as into the rocky hillsides themselves. A few kilometres away, a lighthouse beam sweeps over the island and into the inky depths of the nighttime horizon out on the ocean.

Farrier could never be in the Navy. Never. Flying in the pitch dark is one thing, but it’s a quick discomfort. Sailing in it is something else entirely. Metal monsters prowl the waters, and the shoreline, and the fallacy of safety that comes with it, is worlds away. Great rogue waves come out of nowhere like dreadful phantoms in the night. Nightmarish storms threaten to rip the entire ship in half. Farrier would rather fall out of the sky than fall beneath those endless, dizzying, cold deeps of the ocean.

He shivers to himself at the thought.

He pushes the wrong side of the door at the top of the clanking metal staircase, the side with the hinges, and tries again. The common room at this part of the barracks is much cozier than that at Mount Batten. They’ve a fireplace, stoked and crackling, and a plethora of old, holey socks have been haphazardly nailed to the mantle. Farrier gives a half smile at that. It’s a autumnal jest, but a charming one at that.

“Thank Christ you’re here,” comes a voice behind him. Farrier knows who it is, but the words are so uncharacteristic, he has to turn. Collins sits at a fold up table in the corner, a cigarette between his lips, and his vivid blue eyes watching the groups of men in the commons.

“Huh?”

“We’re outnumbered.” His gaze stays fixated.

“I don’t follow.”

“ _Irishmen_ ,” says Collins, finally staring up at Farrier. His cheek is still ringed with yellowing purple. The Irishmen steal sideways glances at the two Brits as if they overheard. Neither party says hello. “Sit, why don’t you?”

“I don’t like you very much, Collins,” Farrier says lamely.

“I don’t care for you, either, but you en’t gonna sit with them, and there en’t another chair open, save this one. So I guess you can keep standing in the threshold like a right bampot, or sit.”

Farrier glares at him outright, for there’s no way he can argue with that. The rivalry between themselves and the Irish outlasts the rivalry between himself and Collins by a handful of centuries. That must account for something, so he sits.

He leans back comfortably, and it feels good to be in a more open space where he can stretch his legs and breath semi fresh air. He takes off his other jumper and unbuttons his blue broadcloth dress shirt to the white undershirt and suspenders underneath. The weight easing off his chest is nearly therapeutic in the mental shift from combat to rest. He fishes through his pocket for his metal cigarette tin. Farrier pulls one out and the paper feels dry between his fingers. Before he can ask Collins for a light, the fiery haired man has a match already struck. The flame catches and, immediately, clouds of smoke dance from the end of the cigarette.

Even though the tin rests on the table with uneven legs, Farrier can still feel a strange weight in his pocket. He reaches in and finds a small, torn paper box with a deck of cards in it. “Care to play?” he offers, and hates the way the words sound, hates the awkwardness with which he proposes such an effortless question to Collins.

“Do you know Bullshite?”

“The concept, or the game?"

“Was that a joke?”

“Not at all.” Farrier’s lips still quirk in a strange hybrid of a smile. He shuffles the cards poorly and begins dividing them into two decks. His cigarette hangs loosely between his lips as, when he finishes, he glances down at the cards, leafing through them.

“One ace,” says Collins, and sets the card face down.

“Two sevens,” says Farrier, and sets them face down, too. They go back and forth, back and forth, changing in rhythm and tactic so as to throw the other off. “Four tens.”

Blue eyes flick up at him from across the table and Farrier holds the gaze, challengingly. “Bullshite,” he says boldly. Farrier sets his own cards face down and pulls the last four cards up from the deck and flips them over. The blue gaze sweeps over the card faces and he smiles, for the first time at Farrier. The cards are junk. Farrier puts them back and adds the deck to his own hand. Twice more Collins catches him and, eventually, comes to a conclusion. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“What gives me away?” Farrier asks, and, placing his enormous hand of cards on his stomach, smokes in earnest.

Collins shrugs. “I don’t know, honest. I just do.”

Farrier clears his throat and shifts in his chair once more, placing one ankle on his knee. “Makes sense.” Collins gives him a quizzical look and he elaborates. “Everyone knows we don’t get along. Not just the boys like us, but even the commissioned officers, and what have you. They haven’t separated us, even though we’ve been in a straight, fucking fist fight. In theory, we should be prodigious together, us three, and in some ways," he gestures to the cards, "we are. No sense in wasting us in sections with junkers fodder.”

“Why _don’t_ you like me, then?” Collins prompts, setting the remainder of his hands face up on the table, indicating that the game is over. “And remember: I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“I think your lot is why other lads don’t like the Air Force,” he says blatantly. An emotion flickers across his face, but Farrier can’t make it out.

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a fucking game for you, this. Keeping score like you’re kicking a football around, not shooting men out of the goddamn sky, and flirting with all the women’s auxiliary like it’s a pub, and then acting like you’re better than everyone else. We know what war is like in the sky, Collins. Only the R.A.F. Everybody else loves to think that we’re having the fuckin’ time of our lives here, while the ground troops and Navy are being whipped like we’ve never fuckin’ seen.”

Collins looks cool enough after another emotion flickers through his eyes. Whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t say it, Farrier can tell that much. He’s quiet for a long moment, then gets up from the table. Before he leaves he says, evenly, as if he's discussing the morning post, “I said it once, Farrier, and I’ll say it again: you’re full of shit.” As the door closes behind him, Farrier wonders if Collins can sense when the whole truth is being given, just like he can sense a blatant lie.


	4. Quartum

The lights are off in the dormitory the two have been assigned to by the time Farrier opens the door. It’s minuscule, even in comparison to the barrack - style housing at Mount Batten. The room boasts a single bunk, a porcelain sink, an escritoire, and a single, white, barren metal clothes rack. 

There is some life to be found in the dorm, however. The cheap blinds are pulled up to let in what light from the quarter moon shines through the slow moving clouds, if for no other reason than to show a way out, a portal to the sky. Collins’ boots are thrown haphazardly at the foot of the bunk, and the rest of his clothes are thrown over the metal rack. A leather flight journal lies open on the bottom bunk, and, on the floor, is a sealed letter. 

Collins is fast asleep, facing the window. His auburn hair grows an opalescent hue as the moonlight beams in. His brow is even and untroubled and his lips are parted calmly, a puddle of drool beginning to collect on the pillowcase. The thin covers are drawn up to his shoulders, clad in the dingy white of his undershirt. He’s untroubled by whatever they face outside of this utopian little dormitory. 

Farrier subconsciously finds himself wishing that he could have known Collins on terms like this, when their faces were even, blank canvases for better days, better worlds. Battle scars have calloused them over, and it’s hard to know where to find any softness.

He strips to his underclothes, folding his uniform and coat neatly, running his hands over the thick navy fabric, smoothing it. Farrier stacks them, and the rest of the belongings he brought with him, on the escritoire. He lets the water run for a moment, basking in the stabilising noise of it. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe.He leans down and scoops a handful of cold water on his face. The metal knobs squeak as he turns them until the flow of water slows to an echoing  _ drip, drop _ against the porcelain bowl. 

Farrier turns to scramble up to the top bunk. He glances at Collins before he does, and steps quietly to his bedside. Gently, he plucks the flight journal from the thin mattress. A great temptation comes over him as he holds the worn, leather journal, falling apart at the seams, and glances at the cover. Thinking better of it, he sets it just adjacent to the bed on the floor. 

He clambers up onto the bed and uproots the tightly tucked sheets. As he settles, Farrier regrets not bringing his coat up to drape over himself, but he’s suddenly much too tired to care. He turns to face the wall and curls in on himself. Farrier exhales and sinks as much as he can onto the little mattress. His eyes close and no time seems to pass before they’re open again. 

He wakes to the sound of rasping, irregular breath. He glances over his shoulder and finds that the moon is gone. How many  hours have passed? Farrier glances over the side of the bed at Collins.

The auburn haired man no longer wears the smooth, peaceful expression. His brow furrows and unfurrows above flickering eyelids. Collins tosses and turns as if he’s trying to escape his own mind. What is it that he dreams of? Farrier remembers every decision he makes, every moment in the sky, and it is unlikely that Collins is any different. Collins gives a soft whimper into his pillow and lets out a few nonsensical words that not even Farrier can make out. Farrier wonders if he should drop to the floor and shake his wingmate awake. He isn’t sure if Collins would appreciate being awoken, especially by him, or to simply open his eyes and find that the real nightmares are postponed for another few hours. In the end, Farrier decides to not, to fend for himself, because Collins certainly does the same, and he’s sure that, were it him trembling and sweating on the bed, Collins would leave him lie. 

Farrier wakes again to the feeling of his shoulder being shaken. He glances over once more and finds Collins, half dressed, bathed in the glow of the impending dawn. 

“Up and at ‘em,” is all he says. 

Farrier rubs his eyes and he sits up. The floor is cold on his feet, and he doesn’t hesitate to quickly put a pair of wool socks on he. He dresses quickly. Neither of them spare a word to each other. However, Farrier can’t help but feel a residual weight of guilt heavy in his stomach. At least, to some extent, he was wrong about Collins. 

When Farrier first became an airman, he flew with a man perhaps a decade older than himself. He only knew him by his nickname, Twenty-Twenty. He was strange in his own eccentric way. He was a Hollander originally, with jet black hair and two leaf green eyes. Everyday, before missions, trainings, practices, or otherwise, he would perform a long set of eye exercises. He swore, like it was the Gospel, that the exercises combined with consisten flying were improving his sight. If one had even a moment, he would sing praises upon it, and dub it his only reason for joining the Force, and the only reason why he was still alive. Farrier never understood the logic behind it, nor did he ever try the exercises himself  _ ( _ save one sleepless night in his bunk, where he found that all they did was make him dizzy  _ ) _ . 

However, as he became more and more acquainted with men like Twenty-Twenty, he realised that they were simply coping with the weight on their shoulders.When it came down to it, they were all the same: damaged men looking to simply see another day. With such a toll, some sort of coping was required, or they would be damned to insanity. Barber has his plans of someday being a stage actor. Farrier has his books. Collins has his bravado. 

“Collins,” he says, a little strangled. “I feel bad about how we ended things last night.”

“I stand by why I said.”

“I don’t. It was … unfair of me to assume those things about you.”

“It’s fine,” says Collins.

“It’s fine?” Farrier doesn’t believe him for one moment. He can feel them reverting back to whatever they were before last night, both with tall, towering castles built, with walls so high they disappear into the clouds. What lies beyond them, what could be born beyond the clouds where the walls fade away and the world can no longer see?

“Yeah, it’s fine. Can’t get along with everybody, right?”

“No, that’s --- I don’t want to leave things like that.” Collins grounds himself, setting the bag in his hands back on the escritoire. With that, Farrier realises he’s got to dig himself out of the hole he’s been ensnaring himself in. “I want to know you, not know what people say about you or know what I think of you. When I look at you,” Farrier frowns, pausing a moment to choose his next words with pinpoint accuracy. “When I look at you, I get jealous, I think, of what you and I could have been...together, what we were meant to be together, and I’m angry, but I kept blaming you for it because I didn’t…realise that I was angry at myself for putting my pride - I don’t know - between us. And I -”

All of a sudden, the red alarm clock in the room springs to life with a bright, metallic  _ brrrring! _ Farrier cuts off suddenly, his stomach now churning with a different sort of anxiety. Collins grabs his bag on the escritoire. 

“Best be going,” says Collins.

“Right,” says Farrier. 


	5. Quintus

The ground crew undoes the starter trolley connecting the starter motor situated inside the flap on the starboard side of the engine. As he seals the cockpit off, Farrier adjusts the throttle, letting the Merlin warm up. He bounces it back and forth from too low to too high, knowing full well that the early Merlin Marks can overheat easily. Never mind that the engine situated in the little Spitfire is a Merlin Mark XII.

The sky is a watercolour canvas of pinks, purples, indigos, and golds all running together, turning this way and that as the sun prepares to rise. There are clouds to the west, and the waving flags staked in the soft grass of the airfield suggest that, by noon, the sky will be overcast. A light dusting of dew covers everything, from the stalks of green grasses to the wingtips of each craft. In the distance, both upon the ocean and further inland, fog mars the horizon. The thick coastal fogs often attempt to creep over the base, but with so many planes going every which way, Gormanston is too hectic for anything to settle.  
  
From the dirty window, Farrier indicates “chocks away” and he feels the blocks ensnaring the wheels being dragged away. Once he is given the all clear, Farrier very tentatively releases the brake lever and opens the throttle. The engine changes pitch as the Spitfire begins to taxi out. Just on the opposite path of taxiway, Collins moves identically.

“Hullo Fortis 1, this is Control checking in,” a voice thick with an Irish accent comes on in his headset.  
  
“Fortis 1 checking in,” he replies.  
  
“Make sure your taps and tits are all in order and head to 34/5 south for take - off. Fortis Leader is already airborne and at five hundred feet about twenty kilometres out. Connecting you to the rest of the Squadron now.”  
  
“Copy that; angels - one - point - five at twenty clicks, Control.” The Spitfire bobs along the runway as it headed out to the southbound runway.

“Good morning Fortis 1, Fortis 2,” comes a familiar voice.

“Hullo Fortis Leader, this is Fortis 2,” says Collins. Farrier’s stomach flips. He stops at the line and glances to the right. The tower stands in the marshy ditch and, on the other side of it, is a twin Spitfire facing south. Collins.  
  
The sky is blushing with pinks and sherbets as the pearl of a sun begins to hoist itself over the slightly curved horizon. Farrier’s heart races in his chest and he manages to control his breathing. He blinks a few times and raises his hand to wipe at the moisture that is accumulating on his eyelids. He barely registers when the Tower gives him the okay to take off. His body moves before his mind.  
  
Farrier moves his right foot forward for the full right rudder to counteract the swing from the Merlin. He releases the brake lever and opens the throttle gently to give about four pounds of boost. He pushes the control column forward slowly. Moving it with haste would force the nose down onto the tarmac.  
  
Now moving across the airfield, slightly in front of Fortis Two, Farrier works the right aileron control in tandem with the rudder pedal, fighting to keep the Spit moving along the line. He pushes the throttle forward and the engine howls with power. The tail lifts off the ground, the little wheel spinning wildly. In response, Farrier pulls the control column back. Now flying past barracks and planes and hangars and trees and everything, Farrier eases the throttle forward all the way to the gate, achieving full power. Barely feeling any crack or imperfection in the tarmac, the Spitfire hovers above the ground at eighty - five miles per hour. Hand holding tight to the control column, Farrier’s stomach lurches as he feels the lift beneath the wings and the Spitfire become airborne. He sat stiff as he steadily guides the craft up, up, up, until the ground shrinks beneath him.  
  
“Hullo, Fortis Leader, can you please restate your position?” He says.  
  
“One hundred ninety nautical miles from Cattewater, at about angels-one-point-six-five, over.”  
  
“Copy that. Did you catch that, Fortis Two?”  
  
“I did,” says Collins. He brakes the wheels slightly, stilling them as he begins to lift them up into the undercarriage. Two bumps rumble through the fuselage, letting him know the wheels are up. His hands begin changing positions. He pulls the throttle lever back to the cruising revs, as well as the air screw control lever.

The two Spits make good time catching up with the Boeing even as they were climbing in the dawn sky. Farrier naturally takes his position at the port side of the massive transport craft. He eases up and the Spitfire takes the small headwinds and minor turbulence as they come. It is fitting to be about a three hour flight one way, clear over Saint George’s Channel. Nevertheless, they are still flying at combat range--three hundred ninety-five miles on a full tank for a two hundred mile journey, including take off, landing, and a safety for fifteen minutes of fighting.

Staying below the cloud line, the ocean glitters gold as the sun continues its apotheosis. It's a quiet, meditative journey, as mindless and natural as the rising sun. Islands and sandbars rise and fall beneath them like freckles dotting a blue face. The rumble of the Merlin engine is almost numbing, as forgetful as a heart beating. The trivial world cowers beneath the sky, and the prospective is dizzying in physical, metaphysical, and metaphorical ways. 

"Fortis One and Two there's a craft heading southwest by quarter west at about angels five relative to our current position at your three o'clock. Do you reocgnise it?"

Farrier glances up through the scratched window of the cockpit and his eyes fix on the dark silhouette of an airplane moving quickly below the cloud line. He squints hard. "She's not one of ours," he muses. The wings are rounded off, almost rectangular at the ends. The aft wings are much more elongated than the more ovoid Supermarine's.

"That's a Jerry," Collins decides, and, even though no one can tell, Farrier nods his affirmative.

"He's probably the last survivor heading back to base," says the mid gunner of the Fortress.

"Intercept him, if you please, Fortis One and Two," Barber says nonchalantly. Farrier increases the throttle and banks away from the Fortress, Collins following suit just at his flank. Sending two aces after a single Messerschmidt is, perhaps, a bit of overkill, especially when it leaves the Boeing with naught but a Hurricane and its own gunners to fend for itself. However, during the sorties of the last few months, the R.A.F have found themselves dizzyingly outnumbered, facing odds of seven to three, ten to five. It's only fair that the Nazis share in such a terrible burden.

As the two climb higher and higher, now immediately side by side, Farrier's chest grows heavy and his lungs feel sinewy with strain. Before any headache or lapse in vision can manifest, he quickly fixes his oxygen mask to the other side of his helmet. A steady flow of oxygen hisses through the hose. Farrier takes a few deep breaths, and though his lungs still struggle against his ribs, he manages to acclimate.

Catching up with the Nazi is rough, once he realises there are two Spitfires inbound; the Mark of ME 109 boasts a speed and agility simply not able to be accomplished by a Spitfire, unless it's in the hands of a pilot who can think faster than the ME can fly. With naught but more enemy territory for hundreds of miles, the Nazi surely comes to the realisation that there is not resolution to be had by running, so he banks sharply. In their traditional format, Farrier pulls forward, sliding just behind the ME, within it's slipstream. Collins takes a wide arc about the battleground in the sky, picking off what he can while the enemy stays preoccupied with Farrier breathing down his neck.

However, there is a reason why this pilot survived while the others did not.

Somehow, he snares Collins just in front of him, and they find themselves in a stalemate. Farrier's eyes squint as he glances through the red crosshairs. Every time his fingers would twitch for the trigger of the Browning machine guns, the lithe Messerschmidt would cut just alongside Collins, using the Spitfire as a human shield. The yellow nose of the Messerschmidt steadily rises up and Farrier’s heart sinks. The bandit turns inside Collins, exposing it’s belly as it deftly fixes Collins in his cross-hairs.

"Fortis One," says Collins, and a crackling barrage of gunfire comes through the comms. "I've an idea."

"Alright."

"Follow my lead," is all Collins gives him. Farrier watches him closely. The ME rises again, and Farrier waits. A barrage of bullets fly from the Messerschmidt. The propellers on Collins' Spit slow to a halt, lethargically twirling in the thin air. Abruptly, Collins falls out of the sky.  

“Fortis Two, are you down?” Farrier exclaims. 

"No, no," Collins' voice is somewhat strained, the breath forced from his lungs as he falls. There is a moment of confusion for both the Jerry and Farrier. Seizing the miniscule lapse of combat from the Nazi, Farrier shakes himself and aligns himself just behind the ME, fixing the fighter in his crosshairs. The Nazi realises his fatal flaw too late. Farrier turns inside the Nazi, exposing his belly. He engages his Browning .303's and lets a rain fall on the ME. Suddenly, he hears a roar from below, a grinding terror of a Merlin engine growing its protestations. Farrier can't look now, but he watches a spray of bullets mortally wound the ME from below. The 109 banks right, but it's too late. A stream of dark grey traces across the sky. The 109 passes Collins as he rises back on Farrier's starboard. 

"Is he down?" asks Farrier. All of a sudden, as if in response, he hears a chorus of cheers from the Fortress. He can see the two dark shapes a few thousand feet down. They look like two water striders slowly skating upon Saint George's Channel. Farrier slows the Spitfire to a drag and steadily begins to angle back down. Without a word, Collins follows suit.

"He's down, alright!" Fortis Leader says. 

The rest of the flight passes without fanfare, and without much aimless chatter. In the distance of the comms, Farrier can hear the gunners and bombardiers chatting with each other, but he lets the noise fade away to a dull roar. This part of mindless flying is rest for the hyperactive mind. With so much movement, so much noise, so much action, these are the only moments of quietude Farrier gets to steal for himself. They aren't without vigil of course, as his eyes scan the bright horizon, now completely alight with the day. 

He thinks back, seemingly centuries ago, when he was a teenager. Farrier would hitchhike out to Mister Asimov's empty warehouse twenty miles east of Saint Agnes and walk through the tall, disused wheat fields, keeping his eyes peeled for adders in the underbrush. He would open the big padlock and slide the doors wide open until sunlight gleamed into the storage room. Boxes and crates were stacked along the sides of the warehouse and up on the cobweb filled loft. In the very centre was an old biplane from even before the Great War, made of aluminium and canvas with a big, Russian hammer and sickle painted on the side. Farrier would push the biplane out into the grass and clambered up into the cockpit. It didn't take him long to get his bearings in the air, after a few weekend lessons with Mister Asimov yelling at him from the top of the warehouse. 

Every weekend, and occasionally after school and work in the pastures, Farrier would hitchhike to the biplane and fly all over Cornwall, as far as the fuel would allow. There was a most thrilling loneliness, and intimacy that he shared with himself and the sky. It was ostracizing, as he knew that no earth-tethered person could ever know the ecstasy of being free, truly. Of living and acting solely for oneself. Of seeing how little everything truly was. 

Farrier doesn't sense the time go by, as soon enough, they're descending upon the familiar sight of Cattewater. Somehow, Farrier feels like he's home. The wind currents welcome him with an effortless, routine landing and the groundcrew and other airmen treat him to a nice smile and a wave. His thoughts are still in the air, just as scattered as a handful of confetti tossed up into the breeze.  _Shower_ , he decides. Somehow, as his feet scuff across the grass, he realises he's fallen in step with Collins, or perhaps Collins has fallen in step with him. Neither acknowledge the other's presence, and for once, the silence feels natural as opposed to a great, hulking mass. Footsteps jog up to them from behind, and Farrier turns. 

"I've never seen such unorthodox flying," says Barber with a confused smile. "Surely you must've planned that beforehand." Farrier and Collins glance at each other, and a crooked, smile spreads on Farrier's face. Collins laughs, almost incredulously, just as surprised as Barber that their unspoken plan worked. "Well?" Farrier gives a shrug. "You two," Barber rolls his eyes, even though he's grinning as well. "So full of yourselves, and of each other."


	6. Sextus

Collins pulls his helmet off, teeth gritting dangerously. He shimmies out of the seat straps and lets the cockpit fly open. The cold evening breeze blowing across the hilly landscape of Mount Batten cools the sheen of sweat on his brow, darkening his hair and stinging his eyes. His fists clench and unclench around the thick wool lined fabric of his gloves. Collins clambers out of the cockpit and his knees wobble and his feet sting as he hit the tarmac; it was a long, long flight. He’s still dizzy with a swirl of sickness still in his stomach after the dogfight, but he doesn’t allow himself a second to get his bearings.

He stumbles and nearly collapses as he runs nearly one hundred metres to where the last of their formation crumples to a stop, smoke still trailing up into the golden sky. The metal groans its pain and the Merlin engine gives what sounds eerily similar to a death throe as it coughs to rest. Bullets freckle along the side of the fuselage, and, as Collins makes it to the craft, he sees that they’ve shattered the thick glass of the cockpit hatch. 

Collins can tell immediately, as Farrier crumples out of the Spitfire, that this isn’t good. This isn’t a close call. This isn’t just a battle scar. He sprints to his side, holding Farrier up awkwardly as he swoons towards the ground. Collins mumbles senselessly as he goes through the first aid procedure he learned his very first day in basic training and drags Farrier away from the dangerously coughing Spitfire. 

“There’s three,” is all Farrier can get out. His face is sweaty and pale with shock. 

Collins nods erratically, as he takes his tie off. Without any thought to Farrier’s comfort, he takes hold of his arm where a red hole has punctured through his coat. He wraps the tie just above Farrier’s elbow and ties it off lightly. He takes a wooden pencil with a broken tip from his pocket and slips it under the tie, turning it again and again and again until Farrier weakly taps him. 

Collins looks back to the base, ready to yell for a medic when he sees a group clad in snow white already running to them.

“Oh, fuck, oh, god,” Collins chants under his breath as he turns his attention back to Farrier. Blood flows, thick and viscous, onto the grass. “I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t have cut you off like that, I should’ve stuck to formation, I-.”

Farrier shakes his head and just as quickly squeezes his eyes shut with the onslaught of vertigo. “Not your fault,” he manages, and slips away.


	7. Septima

“Fuck,” is all Farrier is able to get out in a hoarse mumble. The world moves sluggishly around him, and everything seems to have a soft, light hue, airy almost. Farrier feels like he weighs one thousand tonnes, entirely immobile on the bed.  _ Manhattan Serenade _ lazily cranks out from a record player somewhere, the dreamy aura of the song only adding to the haze through which Farrier experiences the world. 

Barber chuckles from where he sits at Farrier’s bedside. “That’s right,” he chirps. “You feel alright?” 

Farrier blinks his affirmative and slowly turns his head to look at the bedside table. There’s a small green fabric box with a brass plated label. A cup of coffee rests on top of it, presumably Barber’s. Closer to Farrier is a pack of snow white gauze and a clear glass bottle filled with an amber liquid. Even closer is a tall intravenous fluid holder with a bag of clear liquid and a long tube travelling to the needle he supposes is in his arm. He wants to pull the blanket back to look, but his body is too heavy, too sluggish, too weak. 

“Saline, to keep you hydrated,” Barber says as he catches Farrier look. 

“S’at morphine?” 

Barber leans forward and takes the glass bottle, studying the label. “Oxycodone. Don’t you remember taking it?”

Farrier shakes his head no.

“Do you remember getting to hospital?”

“No,” he sighs as he finally begins to wake. “I just remember getting shot, and you pulling me out of the cockpit.”

Barber gives him a sideways look. “Wasn’t me, Charlie, I was still touching down. It was Collins who got you out of the plane.”

“Really?” Farrier exclaims, and the excitement sends a dull throb of pain through his ribs. He sucks in a breath at the shock and tries to let it out slowly without disturbing the wound. 

“He was in a right state, he was.”

“Really?” Farrier repeats contemplatively, this time just barely more than a mumble. 

“We all were. For a while there, legend had it that you were indestructible, a real Rasputin. As bad as it may be for you, it’s inspiring for the rest of us that you’re made of flesh and blood, too.”

Farrier’s face contorts, half a smile, and half a wince, as he wheezes a laugh. “Silly bugger.” 

“Stop that,” orders Barber, “or they’ll kick me out. Here,” he takes the green box from the table. “You’re out of commission for the next few days, so we got some of your things so you don’t miss us too much. Some American librarians came by on their way to the American Library at Paris and Collins and I were able to buy some books off of them. He thought we were getting too many, but I know how you can go through ‘em like smokes when you want to.” Farrier frowns inquisitively, and Barber pulls the books out. Three paperbacks in decent condition  _ ( _ worlds nicer than the sorry state of his own little library  _ ) _ .  _ Treasure Island _ ,  _ The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn _ , and  _ The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde _ are the selections. He nods wordlessly, trying to decide which one he’ll start with. “Technically, you aren’t supposed to smoke and all, but they’re in the ration, so they’re in the box. I also threw in some of the stuff from your bunk; photos, letters, that stuff. All right?”

“Hmmph.”

“Good show,” says Barber, putting the lid back on the box and returning it to its place on the bedside table. He stands and puts the chair back beside the table and, wordlessly, leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

_ "Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain' dead—you ain' drownded—you's back agin? It's too good for true, honey, it's too good for true. Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. No, you ain' dead! you's back agin, 'live en soun', jis de same ole Huck—de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!" _  He’s reading when he hears bootsteps walk the entire way down the wing of the medical hall, past the rest of the beds. Farrier glances up as the steps slow and he can sense a pair of eyes on him. He isn’t surprised to see Collins after what Barber told him, and though his face doesn’t spare a smile, Farrier’s eyes soften at the familiar sight.

“How d’you feel?” 

“Peachy,” says Farrier evenly, and, for the most part, he means it. For the first time in a long while, he’s rested, properly fed, which is a long way from the automatic state of living he found himself in a week ago. “I highly recommend getting shot a few times, just for a nice holiday.”

“Sometimes I can’t tell when you’re joking,” Collins sighs, and it earns a genuine smile from Farrier. He leans over on his bedside and takes the dwindling pack of cigarettes from the felt box. As he does, the remnants of the stitches pull and stretch sorely. It’s tolerable, though, and Farrier revels in that. He lights a match and a cloud of smoke puffs from the end of the cigarete. 

“Sit, Collins,” Farrier gestures to the chair. “Take your coat off, put your feet up, stay awhile.”

“I can’t stay too long. There’s a war, you know?” He sits anyway, despite. Instead of the chair, he rests on the side of Farrier’s bed.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. That’ll explain the…” Collins nods to Farrier. 

“The getting shot out of the fucking sky?”

“Aye, that,” he smiles broad, but it’s quick to fade, like the moment the sun slips below the horizon and the violet dark turns black. “I really do feel quite bad about what happened.” Farrier's gaze falls to the white of the sheets, where Collins’s hand lays. He reaches for it nonchalantly, though, in his mind, he feels as if the distance is akin to the small distance separating the inside of the cockpit and the sky outside of it. Farrier’s hand covers the other’s and he feels like he’s falling fast. The Scot’s blue gaze flicks down quickly. Slowly, Collins turns his hand so their palms are pressed together. 

At this point, it could be misconstrued as about a million different things. Most prevalently, it could be interpreted as a friendly handshake, but, the way Farrier’s face heats up, that’s not how he intended it.  _ He _ isn’t quite sure how he intended it. Why would anyone just jump out into the sky?

It’s an awkward angle, but Collins manages to lace his fingers between Farrier’s. Their callouses grate together, a canvas of roughness and gory brutality upon which they are trying to let something soft flourish. Farrier rises his gaze to meet Collins’ eyes and finds he looks bothered only by his qualms during their last flight together.  _ Damn him _ , Farrier thinks, but there’s no malice to it.

“I lived, didn’t I?” It’s morbid, and hardly constitutes as consolation, but Farrier’s bedside matter has always been subpar. “Just...don’t do it again, maybe? I only have nine lives.”

“Yeah, okay,” Collins says quietly, as if he spoke any louder, his voice would break. “I’ll make it up to you someday, though.”

“How’s that? By saving my skin or by getting shot out of the sky?” 

He shrugs. “Maybe both.” A drawn out moment of silence develops between them and Farrier is nervous that his hand will grow clammy. Collins swallows hard and opens his mouth to speak just as a nurse clad in a white uniform walks around the small curtain separating Farrier’s bed from the rest of the empty beds. Suddenly, their grip firms into a simple handshake and they let go. 

“Six o’clock again, Rita?” says Farrier, plucking the paper cup filled with a cocktail of pills from her hands. 

“Six o’clock again,” she echoes. Farrier can tell Collins doesn’t go unnoticed by her. Collins stands from the bed and begins to take his leave.

“See you soon, Farrier,” he says. “Rita,” he touches his hand to his brow. Collins won’t be able to see it as she turn her attention quickly to the log of medications on the bedside table, but Farrier doesn’t miss the mottled red blush on her face as vibrant as the cross on her uniform. 

“Good luck, Collins.”  _ Damn him _ , Farrier thinks.


	8. Octavius

_ Dear Mother, _

_ I’ve recently been cleared for duty again after a fortnight hiatus. I know you don’t wish to hear much of it, but it has felt strange getting back into the cockpit after so long being bedridden, or confined to groundcrew when the gods smile favourably on me. I’ve been finished with the books for a while now, so I’ll bring them home in a week, as my ship has come in for a long weekend of leave, and take some others with me. Hope the bats haven’t gotten too bad in my place (I know you don’t check up on it!).  _

_ I’ve met a man here. He’s my wingmate, an absolute looker, and I’ve fallen head over heels in love with him. He’s a Scot, but I think he’s your kind of lad. You’d say he’s good for me, like a brisk jog is for a cold. We held hands for a good ten seconds once and now we spend every waking moment together, war aside. I can’t tell if it’s infatuation or true love or just a partnership of necessity.  _

_ Maybe I’ll bring him home for you sometime if I ever get the chance. He doesn’t seem like the type for that business and you’d scare the shit out of him. I’ll see if he has plans for this next leave. Might be too short for a way up to Aberdeen or wherever it is he’s from. Either way, it might be best to have a room ready for him at my home (I know you don’t check up on it!) _

_ Hell seems to have frozen over here; my fingers are about ready to break off. Write back soon. Send extra scorn and please check up on my house, I mean it.  _

_ With love, _

_ Charles Farrier. _

He rises from the metal chair slowly and, crumpling the letter up, tosses it into the fire.


	9. Nono

The lock takes a few tries before it finally gives for the key. The door creaks open and Farrier finds the withdrawing room looks exactly the same as when he left it. It’s a small home, old fashioned in both furnishing and design, but still functional, and that’s about as far as Farrier minded it. The last rays of the sun gleam through the open door and catch the migrating currents of dust floating along the air currents.

“Just put your stuff by the staircase, if you wish,” he says passively, holding the door for Collins. Wordlessly, he obliges, finding the stairwell easily in the little home. With little care for scuffs, Farrier kicks off his shoes and sets his things haphazardly by the door. He closes it and shivers at the wind.

“Have a book of matches, love? I’ll start a fire,” Collins calls and the domesticity of it makes Farrier’s heart crunch like a hard candy.

“In the cabinet by the door there should be some. Might be spoiled what with my absence and all,” he says. He can hear the cabinet door squeak open and a few logs being set into the place. The cover makes a great, grating cacophony, and the match quietly snaps to life.

Farrier goes to the kitchen, filling the dented teapot up with water before setting it on the stove. The stale gas gives a homely stink as it is finally roused away once more. He pulls the porcelain pot from the cabinet and sets it on the counter. The wooden tea box creaks with disuse as he fishes out a black teabag and drops it insouciantly in the pot. “I’d offer you a slice of cake, but my pantry is nawt.”

“That’s alright,” Collins says distantly, as if he’s preoccupied. Farrier turns and sees him slowly moving across the mantle, staring at each photograph perched there. Alarm echoes in him like a warning bell struck. There’s something exposing about another seeing photos of childhood, of lost parents, of lost lives. In Farrier’s mind, it almost seems to infringe on the reverent sanctity in which he remembers those things. Sharing it with another seems like sharing a secret and betraying one’s trust. He frowns slightly, but says nothing out of fear of contention. “What does your mum do?” Collins asks, picking a dusty brass frame and examining the picture behind the clouded glass.

“Odds and ends. Carpentry, mostly,” Farrier says stiffly. He clears his throat uncomfortably and adds, “She’s dead, actually. Buried up on the hill there,” he jerks his head to the back of the house. Collins takes it wordlessly, and Farrier’s grateful he doesn’t utter some needless cliche.

“This is your father, then?” Collins holds up another photo.

“No, no: the landlord. Nice old Rusky chap. He taught me how to fly, actually.”

“Oh,” Collins grins impishly. “You had a private tutor? From _Russia_ , no less?”

Farrier opens his mouth to dispute it, but decides against it as he realises he's only being teased. “Yeah, well…” His voice trails off. The tea starts to boil and Farrier pours it in the pot. Immediately, the water is stained amber, tendrils of the tawny tea marring the clear sanctity of the water. He waits a minute to stir it, enjoying the aesthetic of the steeping tea.

“Why so many sheep?” Collins asks, staring at a sepia picture, torn around the edges, of a much younger looking Farrier sitting and smiling amongst a flock of bulgy - eyed sheep.

“That was my job, once upon a time.”

“A shepherd?”

“Hmm,” he grunts. “Two sugars, no cream?”

“Aye.” The cups rattle quietly against the saucers as Farrier carries them to the withdrawing room and sets them on the chipped wooden coffee table. He collapses on the scallop - edged loveseat and it wobbles with fragility. The turquoise fabric has long been pilled with stains of mustard and jelly on the arms. Farrier’s scars throb tiredly and he heaves a great sigh, letting his legs splay open with relaxation. He watches Collins watch his memories.

“Let me ask you something personal,” says Collins as he leafs through a collection of photographs taken at a beach somewhere where the ocean was too cold to swim in and Farrier was too young to care.

“Shoot,” says Farrier, his voice carefully shrouding the nervous curiosity that bubbles in his chest.

“What’s your Christian name?”

“Charles,” he says boredly.

“You go by Charlie?”

“Sometimes.”

“Just Charles?”

“Mostly.”

“How about Chaz?”

Farrier’s face splits into a grin. “Never.”

“I’ll be the first then,” Collins decides.

“Yeah, okay,” he still beams. “What’s yours?”

“Daniel.”

“Daniel,” Farrier echoes. He’s never been one for nicknames, so he doesn’t ask if Collins goes by one. Collins draws his feet up on the couch and sips at his tea, eventually helping himself for more. Farrier likes the way he looks in his home. He fits here, and he hopes that Daniel thinks the same. They sit on the couch and talk for at least three grandfather clock chimes, about anything and everything.

One gets to know a man intimately, simply by agreeing to die alongside him, and, countless times, nearly doing just that. One also gets to know a man by watching him suffer through nightmares, watching him bleed out on the grass, watching him be attacked right beside the other.

However, there is a desire to indulge in the shallowness of a person. Does he find Mae West attractive? Does he find Bing Crosby attractive? Can he stand raw tomatoes? How cold is too cold? What was the worst thing he ever did at primary school?

Farrier had never talked so much consecutively in his entire life, nor had he ever laughed so much. Nor had he ever felt so loved.

From the time of his conception to the middle of his sixth year, there was no love in his home. His life afterward was powered by the lack of it, running away from a man who hated, and trying to hold everything together with the sort of tired, desperate love he shared with his mother. Sitting on the loveseat and talking to simply talk was unheard of. There was money to be earned, precautions to be made, sleep to be had. Life was a commodity. Farrier was born to survive.

The night hour draws long, nearing its highest peak, however, and the little Victorian house finds itself quiet. Light still bleeds out from the windowpanes into the fields surrounding, and, every so often, a shadow crosses the window. Farrier stands in his bedroom, methodically folding the clothes he brought and setting them atop the dresser along with the stack of books he had read countless times over. The furnace hums gently, a smooth juxtaposition to the cold wind rustling the overgrown trees and bushes outside.

A small _snick!_ sounds from the guest room and, among the crackle of the record, comes a [smooth waltz tempo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Or5cjm_fSpo), a thick pulse followed by a smooth wave of strings and winds. A harp strums to the beat of the tempo and the violins vibrato a coconut sweet melody above the sound of musical waves crashing on the beach. Farrier shuffles down the hall, leaving a jumper sad and half folded on the dusty armoire. He leans in the threshold of the door and finds Collins red handed.

His hair is slightly ruffled still from the train ride and his clothes are wrinkled. His jacket is thrown haphazardly over the argyle upholstered chair by the vanity table, leaving him standing in his trousers, half buttoned shirt, and suspenders. He looks handsome anyway. Collins always looks handsome, Farrier thinks.

“Didn’t think you’d have this sort of stuff,” Daniel holds up the record holder. _By the Sleepy Lagoon_ , it reads.

“It was my mum’s,” Farrier shakes his head. “She always talked about going to the West Indies or some shit. This was the closest she got to it.”

“Damn shame.”

“Not really.” They stand for a while as the melody intensifies like the rising, tropical sun, blazing down on fat, waxy palm fronds. The room is dark. The black coloured sky is all they have for a Caribbean sunset as the clouds drift across the sky invisible and a bitter wind rolls like crashing waves over the barren moors. A train rattles far away. A dog barks far away. A war is fought far away.

“Dance with me,” Collins demands. Wordlessly, Farrier obliges, knowing any fight he might feel inclined to put up would be quickly extinguished. Besides, he wants to dance, too. The old hardwood panels creak as he crosses the room on the Persian rug. He steps close to Collins and their hands join. Collins places his other hand on Farrier’s hip and he nearly jolts out of  his skin. Farrier’s hand snakes from Daniel’s shoulder down to his shoulder blade. They step closer again and the Scot’s hand rests at the small of Farrier’s back to make up for it.

They sway more than they really dance, as the moon remains a shadow and abandons them into pitch darkness, save the kitchen lights left on downstairs that leak up the stairwell.

Farrier isn’t sure if it’s been eons since he’s been touched like this or if he’s ever been touched like this at all. He’s no stranger to the physical sense of love, but there’s a great emotion to this that makes him feel virginal. Orgasms are technical in their creation, but what Farrier has missed is the warmth making his heart cramp with every beat and the overwhelming desire to do good, for Daniel, for seeing him happy is the key to Farrier's own happiness. It seems so simple, in theory, to slow dance, to touch like this, to be close like this.

He lets his hand drift up to the nape of Daniel’s neck where trails of ruddy blond hair begin and thickens to soft tufts. He runs his fingers through it and tugs softly, letting it slip between his fingers like water, like Chinese silk. A smile pops on the Scot’s lips and he shivers.

Farrier’s hand comes down and rests on Collins’s cheek. The needle _snicks_ as it returns to its original position and suddenly, jarringly, they are plunged back in silence. Collins wraps his arms around Farrier’s waist and without closing their eyes, they kiss.

It’s hardly a brush of lips, as solid as a cloud sailing across the sky. Farrier has felt weightless enough times in his life to know that he’s floating six feet above the ground. He kisses Collins again, eyes fluttering closed, this time with more substance. They kiss like they fly: a tandem acting as one, moving as one, responding as one, living as one. Farrier leads and Collins is instantaneous to follow. Collins leads and Farrier acts just as immediately. It's a sweet rhythm of tugging, just to come back together, a meeting that is half chaste, half explicit. Daniel holds him tight until they are completely pressed flush together like cards in a deck, so close that their heartbeats beat in contrast, just centimetres apart. Farrier thinks he could stand here forever, letting his hands and his lips speak extensive verses of love and adoration. It's almost overwhelming enough to make him forget about the world they live in and the stark realities of that fact. 

Collins breaks away, pausing, though he's still close enough that just a small sway would press their lips together again. Farrier's eyes open and he studies Collins and wonders if he looks just as flustered and flushed. He rubs his thumb over his smooth cheek and feels Collins smile against his palm. Daniel leans in a presses a soft kiss on Farrier's cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. Farrier's knees nearly wobble, and he has to shuffle his feet to stay upright. “Take me to bed, Chaz,” says Collins against his lips.

“Yeah, okay,” Farrier nods. They quickstep down the short hall to Farrier’s bedroom. The old fashioned lamp with the jellyfish-like shade on the bedside table is still on, casting a warm glow and long shadows about the room. Collins sits on the bed, his suspenders around his hips and his calloused fingers working at his buttons, while Farrier closes the drapes. The thick, fake damask thumps against the wall as they’re pulled shut.

As they settle, Charles turns to stare at Collins. He can’t tell if Collins knows that Farrier watches him undress there on his bed. His movements are stable and nonchalant, but yet, the way his neck bends and how the shadow of his eyelashes project on the high apple of his cheeks, he might as well be putting on a show. Farrier wouldn’t put it past him; Collins the extrovert, Collins the flirt, Collins the romantic. His romantic.

Farrier pulls his shirt over his head, ruffling his overgrown hair. When he frees himself, he can catch the faintest trace of a blue gaze trained on him and he tries not to smile. He feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his own body. Farrier abandons his clothes on the floor by the damask curtains. The whispers of Daniel’s hands still roam over his body, warm and cool all at the same time. His mouth burns pleasantly, akin to toothpaste on dry lips. He has to stop himself from reaching up to touch.

Farrier can’t help himself and he glances over at Collins, who now lays on his bed, bare like an odalisque. His blue eyes are shining, gleaming like the first blue of the morning sky. It shocks Farrier, in a world, a time, like this, especially considering the roles in society they have chosen to play, is almost obscene in its incongruity.

He goes to the bedside and Collins rolls supine. Farrier hovers above him, their foreheads resting together, their lips so close that their breath whispers together. His gaze falls to his lips, and, even though he’s only felt them once, Farrier thinks he could recall them from memory, like the freckles and marks that line his very own body. They’re slightly chapped, the curve of his lower lip, the way it bows down to the slight cleft in his chin. Farrier runs his fingers lightly over Collins’s jawline, to his chin, presses his them into the ridge there and kisses the seam of his lips until they part for him.

Sweet suction, scalding flesh, a dizzying game of pushing and pulling leaves Farrier in a blissful haze. Memories of lithe muscles drawing taut and releasing line his dreams instead of raging fires. The feeling of smooth skin and rough scars juxtaposing hum beneath his fingertips. The pull of the bedsheets was a mirror of the pull of Farrier’s brow as he held onto Collins, as Collins held onto him. The way his name was uttered upon Daniel’s lips like an adage whispered, moaned, yelled at the stars in the night still rang in Farrier’s ears like the ripple of a water skater stirring the thin surface of the water.

When Farrier wakes, Collins is pressed against his chest, one hand still lightly placed on his. Sunlight leaks through the curtains and paints a stripe of dawn on Daniel’s bare flesh. Farrier ghosts his fingers over his back gently, just enough to touch, but not enough to wake. Collins is warm atop him, and the downy blond hair on his legs is smooth against Farrier’s. His heart surges with a wave of emotion. It feels heavy in his chest like a cloth soaked with water, quickly dripping onto the floor. Farrier presses his lips to Collins’ forehead and uses his free hand to smooth his hair now riddled with cowlicks. Collins stirs slightly and Farrier shushes him. He tells him he loves him, but Collins doesn’t hear.


	10. Decima

The cardboard has been warped with rain and snow, layers upon layers of dust cemented on the smooth sides and rough edges of the cardboard box. It has served as naught more than a bedside table for months now, to the point that Collins has nearly forgotten what it is and who it belongs to. 

Word has traveled through the grapevines of France, and across all of Europe, from tongue to tongue to tongue. The final news comes from a Dutch Flight Lieutenant from The Hague. There is a needlepoint percentage of its accuracy and truth, as information has been translated more times than Collins could ever know. However, it acts as some sort of closure, some sort of remedy for the dreams that plague his nights and days, and the despair that droops in his heart like a great cavity, scorched and flaking away around the edges.

There was a body found with Farrier’s tags found twenty or so kilometres along the road from Kiefhiede to Heydekrug, Memelland. It was frozen in the snow, bearing numerous wounds, and not much else. The corpse was one of some fifty others littering the road to Stalag Luft VI, all who perished during a long march.

The Dutchman said that he passed peacefully, that the hypothermia set in first, that he didn’t feel the strike of the bayonet through his body. Collins nodded along, but he knows death well enough to know that there is no sect of it that is peaceful. He has watched boys waste away crying out for their mothers. He has heard the wailing of human beings crying out as the wail of Stukas descend upon them. Death throes line his breaths, and he fears that they always will.

There’s no reason for him to secure Farrier’s privacy any longer, and therefore, there is no reason for him to keep avoiding his box of belongings. His Flight Lieutenant gives him the afternoon. Collins thinks that everyone on base, everyone that knew them, knew they were in love, on some level or another. _You’re so full of yourselves, and of each other._

He sits on the cold floor at oh - four - hundred, cuts the twine sealing and opens it. He’s seen most of these before. They’re small trinkets - a box of familiar playing cards, an empty book of matches, a hex key, a necklace charm, a box of stationary. There are a few things that are new, like Farrier’s flight journal, and a page of sheet music torn out from a book by Erik Satie, a tin of hard candies, and, surprisingly, a photograph of Collins from his hometown newspaper.

Sticking out of the flight journal is a folded piece of paper. It’s an old transport manifest, detailing a list of imports and exports, as well as quantities, materials, and dates for delivery. Collins is about to set it aside and dismiss it as simply something Farrier intended to log when he notices press marks from a hand writing on the other side. He flips it over and finds that Farrier’s spindly, sharp, ungraceful handwriting is scrawled over it, bending in every which way, with an assortment of arrows and marks of distinctions. It’s a letter, most likely. Even though he knows it matters not, Collins feels strange reading it. To his knowledge, Farrier doesn’t have any remaining family he’s interested in spending the effort writing to.

As he skims over the format of the writing on the back of the manifest, complete with the official base and R.A.F watermark, Collins realises that it’s not a letter at all, but a manuscript, a draft. His eyes adjust to Farrier’s writing, and he reads.

“Collins,” it begins, “I never did like you. The way you carried yourself, the way you flirted with every feminine looking thing in a five kilometre radius, the way you took everything so lightly. Upon further examination, hating you wasn’t the cause of our terse relationship. Men like that are a quid a dozen on base. I realised it stemmed from jealousy. I wanted your attention, I wanted your affection, I wanted you to be more careful, more serious, because I couldn’t bear to remember your names like I remember the others. I never did like you, but rather, I have loved you from the beginning.

“Being with you makes the war like a fight between children. Your smile clears the clouds and makes the flowers grow. Your laugh is what makes my heart beat. Sometimes I feel as if you and I should have been born long, long ago, and sometimes I feel like we should have been born decades from now. But, even though we were born in the year we were, I always come to the conclusion that if we lived some other time, our paths would have never crossed. I come to the adjacent conclusion that I would rather have known your love and love you in return than risk never knowing you at all.”

His hands grip the page so tightly, his joints sting with pain, and his flesh turns pale white. Collins churns with despair, and it spreads to his heart, seizing it so suddenly, he feels as if he’s rotting from the inside out, withering away to nothing. Perhaps he’s never understood truly that Chaz is gone, dead, no more, until this moment. Perhaps he regrets all of the wasted days distancing himself from a man he had come to believe despised him. Perhaps he wishes that he had drowned after all, for surely this pain is worse than death. Collins turns swiftly and slams his fist into the wall so hard it rattles his bones and sends blood weeping down his fingers.

Suddenly, he wishes to burn the box, set fire to the cards, to the journal, to his books, to his memories, to Farrier’s home, his photographs, his mother’s old records. Collins wants to purge this hurt, even if it means losing everything he has left of his beloved. And yet, he knows that setting everything aflame cannot begin to undo the love still stoked so tenderly in his heart like the fire he started in Farrier’s fireplace. The blood dries on his knuckles and Collins grows cold once more. Where else can he go but up, Collins wonders. Perhaps something waits patiently for him beyond the clouds.

“Marry me,” the manuscript ends, “when we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://khoroso.tumblr.com) or on find me on [this blog](https://britanniam.tumblr.com) for more dunkirk content (:


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